Rory snatched my hand. Threw something from his pocket into the air. “Move.” There was a whirring sound, something small and circular passing over my head and through the door, then Rory and I were moving after it. I winced, bracing to collide with the wood, but my body—my body was nothing—and I didn’t feel a thing as I passed through the door, out of the cottage, into the night. Rory caught whatever he’d thrown and stowed it back in his pocket, the two of us corporeal once more. He let go of my hand like it had scorched him.
